


English and Ink

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Liverpool F.C., The Ache in Your Legs Footy Ficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 01:31:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2489519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javier Manquillo hates learning English- but is fascinated by Alberto Moreno's tattoos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	English and Ink

In Javier’s defence, his fixation took root in their shared English classes. After fifteen minutes of grammar, his brain fatigued from thinking and speaking in English -nothing but English- he felt defeated. Seeing the words that seemed similar but really they were not on the whiteboard - today’s topic _How To Describe People_ stacked another card of frustration on top of the others. 

“Javier ees- tall?” Alberto volunteered in halting English, before he raised his hands and waved them back and forth, a frustration of ‘wait’. “Not so tall. I - he _is_ taller than me? Ahhh...” Alberto frowned, before he bit at his cuticle and thought for a minute. “He. Has. Back-no, - _black_ hair, brown eyes, and is wearing-” his tongue at the corner of mouth now, deep in concentration, “black and white shirt with black trousers.”

“Good, good,” their tutor encouraged, before turning to Javier and held out her hand, as if she were presenting an idea to him rather than pointing at him. 

“Alberto...” Javier wrinkled his brow, leaning back in his chair, as he looked at his fellow teammate. The heating in the room forced them both to shuck off their jackets, Alberto in the black short sleeved shirt they both wore off the training pitch, the colours and lines of his tattoo sleeve scrolled along his arm. The ink on his skin morphing from the soft, curved features of a woman’s face against the scarlet flush of roses, to the menacing lines of grinning skulls at his elbow, fading towards old fashioned clock faces at his wrist. A celebration of the dead and the living and the time passing between them. 

“Alberto,” Javier began again, “is short-” at this, choked laughter erupted in their small classroom, with Coutinho squeezing Alberto’s shoulder from behind out of solidarity, as Alberto laughed along with the rest of them. “Has _maro0-_ brown? Brown hair, brown eyes and his arm? His arm is _tatuajae_ \- tattoos? Tattooed. They are-” and the rails of his vocabulary ran out before the train of his thoughts did, as he said, “Nice.”

“Good work, Javier,” his tutor nodded, before she stepped over to the white board, and started to type on her computer, before launching into the lesson. At least, Javier thought, before giving Alberto’s arm one last look before focusing on the rest of the lesson, they only had to learn articles today.

***

“English, here,” Jose Enrique prodded gently after Javier lost the epic table tennis match to him. Alberto had to crouch under a table, for his Instagram close up. Javier had to say, in English, “I am the ugliest player who ever played for Liverpool.” He still thought Alberto got off lightly.

“You do have to speak English,” Jose wagged his finger at him in mock warning. Despite the smile, and warm tone, the seriousness threaded through the words. “You’re in England, and as much as they don’t mind foreign players, they do like it when you make an effort.”

“It’s hard.”

“I know, but it’s a good language to learn, eh? Besides, our Captain is English. He’s good to play with,” Jose pressed. “ With English, you get to know him too.”

“You’re not the ugliest person in Liverpool,” Alberto said, his hand warm on Javier’s shoulder after they left the rec room to go to the lockers, change and go home. “No one is, really. We have a decent looking team. Not as handsome as the Spanish ones, but-”

Javier rolled his shoulders as he punched his hands into the sleeves of his coat in the locker room. A year ago, he fell on his head, got whiplash in a match tussle with Real Madrid's Cristiano Ronaldo and came out in one piece. He, Javier Manquillo Gaitán, could handle a bit of hazing, even in English. That did not mean he would have to like it however.

“English is hard.”

“True,” Alberto agreed, with a laugh as he rubbed at his face. His arms still bare as he’d yet to slip into his coat, and those might have been feathers drawn from bones on his forearm, with a woman’s face peeking out. Her eyes closed, her lashes on soft cheeks, a madonna from the church gracing the canvas of his skin. “But, it’s a good opportunity, yes? Good club, _genial_ supporters, so we should learn.”

“Yes,” Javier agreed, for on the surface of it, the request seemed reasonable. “El clima-” no, he could do this, express a sentiment in English. “ _The weather is here shit_.”

Alberto snorted a laugh of agreement. “ _The weather here is shit_ ,” he corrected. “Yes, it is.”

***

To be fair, it wasn’t as if Javier didn’t know of Alberto before they both ended up at Liverpool. Or even Suso. All of them called up to the selección under 21s, from their various teams to wear the crest of their country. So he knew about Alberto’s tattoos; the one circling on his calf that reminded him of the blue and white tiles you saw on the walls in the little squares in smaller Spanish towns, mostly dedicated to flowers, or saints. Swirls and bands, in a compact design. That tattoo normally hidden by knee socks and shin pads when playing matches, but when practicing- stripped down to shorts and socks, as they went through the paces, winding through spikes, building up their footwork - no lead feet for the type of football Liverpool wanted- it drew his eye.

Resting in between training sessions, Javier kicked his shoes off, not caring about the chill of the air, his body pumping heat from the exertion of the previous sessions. He slouched, mindlessly massaging his own ankle, watching as Alberto did keep ups half lying, half sitting down. The etch of ink against the skin, and he wanted to trace along the lines of it with his finger, like he did with the patterns on those Spanish tiles. Not that he wanted tattoos on his own skin- but he could admire the art of them on Alberto. 

Alberto gave him a look, his eyes moving from Javier’s ankle, to his face, a question of concern in his eyes. Javier waved his hand back and forth, as he shook his head, embarrassed to have been caught out. No, he wasn’t hurt, this was nothing. 

As defenders - left and right back for club and country- Javier found himself thrown together with Alberto, a two for one with interviews for Spanish sports papers every time they swung their eyes towards the Premier League. Javier understood this- they were both young Spanish players making starting XI on an English team; a contrast to their team fortunes back home, with them just breaking through as substitutes. Now starters on a team that did well enough in the last season, but definitely not living up to the promise this time around. It didn’t make the interviews any more pleasant, any less tricky. Alberto, to his credit, was a good partner to have. 

“We’ve started with difficulty,” Alberto acknowledged, “but we’re a young team, and getting stronger. Yes, it was a bummer being here at first- new country, language and -” he faltered, his face flushing, and Javier knew that Alberto was remembering Sevilla, and the last night he spent on the field in tears. 

“We share English lessons,” Javier pushed in, willing himself to get over his own reticence, “and it makes it easier. The fans still sing, no matter how difficult we are. With Real Madrid, well, _Yo soy Colchonero_ \- you always play to the mattress when it comes to them, and playing against Real Madrid is always special, but we have to deal with Basel first. A good, tough opponent.”

“English lessons are always funny,” Alberto rallied now, smiling as he caught Javier's eye. “But we do know how important it is to learn the language of the Liverpool supporters.”

***

“Thank you for what you did for me,” Alberto said much later. By mutual agreement, they decided to take their fate in their hands and have a meal outside of their club, and away from the places they knew. In halting English- they asked for a coffee and a latte. Then, deciding to even be more adventurous, they read the menu and ordered a pub lunch.

“You’re a teammate,” Javier said, remembering the first time Alberto arrived at Liverpool, a few days after he did. Alberto did look shell shocked, withdrawn. Everyone knew about his connection with Sevilla- the only home and team he’d known- and for the first couple of days, Alberto didn’t seem at all there. Only for him to surprise everyone by taking on the ice bucket challenge, clad in shorts in the locker room. With a shy smile at the camera, he nominated teammates from his present team- Javier being one of them.

 _”You nominated me for the ice bucket challenge?” Javier said as he caught up with him in training next day. They had still been new to each other, then. He had seen Alberto’s tattoos close up for the first time. Not the glimpses before, when they were called up for the national team, or played a few matches together for their country. Not like now, when he was close up enough to know that a turquoise rose bloomed against red on Alberto’s inner elbow between the faces of two women._

_“Yes,” Alberto nodded, before he frowned with concern. “If that is okay? I had to nominate someone and you came to mind. You don’t have to do it.”_

_“No, no, no,” Javier shook his head, “I will. If our Captain can do it, we should too. It’s cold though, and this country if we wait on warmth-” he broke off in a mock shudder._

_“We will do it together,” Alberto cut in. And they did - with Suso standing behind a camera phone. Javier sat on the little stool, aware of Alberto just out of his vision hefting the bucket, the weather considered mild enough here (loco, everyone in this country was loco) for them to be in short sleeves. Alberto hefted the orange bucket, the faces of his skulls rippling as his skin shifted over muscle and effort. His shirt sleeves moving back, enough for Javier to see the expanse of sleeve, and before he could take it in, the water from the bucket splashed on him like a cold wave. He jumped up, not caring if he looked weak, as he ran off, water squishing in his trainers._

“I think,” Alberto started off in English. “That with Sevilla. It is what- everyone -”

“Everyone knows you for, you mean?” Javier finished in Spanish. “That you loved Sevilla enough so it hurt you to leave? Everyone must leave the things they love sometime or the other.”

“I-” Alberto said, breaking off while their waitress served them their coffees. Their pub lunch came shortly afterwards. 

“Oh, wow,” Alberto laughed with unabashed delight. “We read the menu correctly! It looks like what we thought we ordered.”

“Yeah,” Javier’s laughter was more along relief. Glad to see that pescado meant _fish_ in English, and the fish in fried batter with lemon slices. Close enough to food from home for him to take a chance. He broke the piece with his fingers, chomped into the fish. “Oh, it’s good! You always hear how English food is not the best. I mean- they don’t have balsamic vinegar or olive oil on the tables, but it is not bad.”

“We could ask.”

“No,” Javier shook his head. “That is enough English for one day.”

“If you thought like that,” Alberto said with a gleam in his eye, “you wouldn’t be here.”

Another challenge then, Javier realised. 

Eyes on Alberto’s face he lifted his hand, catching the waitress’ attention. “Miss,” he said politely, smiling when she came over. “ _Perdón_ ,” he began, and Alberto could allow him this, as he finished his request in English. “We will like some olive oil and -” he remembered the name given to the condiment in English, he had bought enough bottles at Sainsbury’s enough times, with Daniel Sturridge sounding out the words for him. “Balsamic vinegar?”

II

The plane ride to a tournament, Spanish nationals with their short sleeved shirts, and Alberto’s arm on their shared armrest, drove Javier to look away from his window seat and finally ask, “Why?”

“Why what?” 

“Your tattoos- they are so-” and you would think that Spanish had not been his first language, the way how words deserted him at first thought and stayed out of reach. “Did they hurt?”

Unselfconscious, Alberto stretched out his arm, the ebb and flow of his tattoo sleeve there for all of Javier to see. The colours bright, the lines sure, the composition intricate and as considered as the paintings of any cathedral in Spain, as luminous as glass windows in a church. Javier found his hand going towards Alberto’s arm before he was aware, and stopped himself. 

“You can touch,” Alberto prompted, with the easy air of a person who accepted the curiosity their tattoos sparked throughout the years. “They only sting when you are in the chair, at the end of the needle, not when people are touching them.”

Javier did, his fingers starting from Alberto’s bicep, the skin warm and muscles firm under fingertips. Flowers, skulls, women in repose, feathers and colour. Each time he looked, something new peeked out at him. His fingers traced the swirls of the blue rose petal, blended and shaded so it looked three dimensional, soft and glowing. Juxtaposed with the flinty glare of a woman underneath, her hooded eyes alert, and fixed. A Medusa to stun all men that faced her, leaving them fixed in stone for all time; as her features narrowed and formed the lines of an old fashioned fob of a watch, its oversized clock face marking time in roman numerals. 

“It’s good,” Javier said finally, as his fingers drummed against Alberto’s wrist, feeling the throb of Alberto’s pulse when they finally stilled. “And your other arm, will you be finishing that too?”

“We’ll see, yes?” Alberto rubbed at his nose with his other hand. The air in the airplane always dried everything out. “I have to get settled in Liverpool first, I think. Find a tattooist that I can trust. It’s a work in the making. With Sevilla,” Alberto tried to smile, but it wobbled at the edges. “I knew who to trust.”

“You are not-” and Javier didn’t know if he wanted to hear the answer to this question, but team spirit meant taking the emotional temperature of your _compañeros_ , and seeing if you could get it down to manageable levels, if you could. “Still sad about coming to Liverpool? To England?”

“No,” Alberto shook his head. “I mean, I miss the food and the weather, and the longer evenings, but who does not? I am not sad for home anymore. I remember Xabi Alonso speaking with me about Liverpool, and the Premier League, how both the team and league made him a better player, and he was a force in La Liga when he returned, yes ? It is a new adventure, no? Top advice from a top player. I had to leave home to do better, to be better. I shall always be a _Sevillista_ , like you’re a _Colchonero_. It will always be an allegiance that’s like-” at this Alberto smiled, and lifted his arm, did a vague wave. “My tattoos. It is always in your skin, so it is a part of you, like Sevilla will be a part of me, and Atlético you, yes?”

“Yes,” Javier agreed, relieved to know that Alberto’s mood was settled, and strong. “And now, Liverpool red, if we do well enough.”

“Of course, that goes without saying.”

Javier took out his phone, and held it up. They were not as active on their social networks like Balotelli or Enrique, but their little knot of supporters liked the fact they both posted social updates when they could. Alberto leaned in, their shoulders brushing against each other, as they took a picture of themselves in their Spanish kit to beam out to the world. Alberto handed Javier his phone, and they repeated the process. 

“You have to write the captions in English,” Javier said. “I ordered for us at that English restaurant, remember?”

“Oh. Ah,” Alberto groaned in good humour as he rubbed at his face, before slotting his cheek into his hand, his elbow on the armrest, his tattoo sleeve plain to see. “Fine. This is fair. You have to help me with the spellings though.”

“Yes, we can do that,” Javier smiled, tracing his finger along the lines of the grinning skull that faced him on Alberto’s forearm. 

“Boo,” Alberto flexed his bicep, causing the skull to ripple. “Can you name all the features of my tattoo in English?”

And because he knew Alberto wouldn’t take no for an answer, Javier exhaled with mock exasperation. “There’s really nothing else on the plane to do, so... I can try.”

Alberto laughed, stretching out his arm again. “Okay.”

FIN.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt taken from livejournal footie fanfiction. Link is here: http://thesilverwitch.livejournal.com/31896.html I might change the title when I think of a better one. Cheers.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [cuando el sueño venga por mi](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3557960) by [doubtthestars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doubtthestars/pseuds/doubtthestars)




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